Synesthesia.

Most people’s voices

flatten into neutrals —

black, white, beige, grey —

the dull wallpaper of sound.

But his—

his words unfurl in colors so ripe

they could stain my lips.

Burgundy pools,

umber shadows,

terracotta clay warm from the kiln,

rust burning at the edges

like fallen leaves curled in flame.

His laughter is no lighter.

It cracks open in bright metals:

copper sparks,

brass bells ringing low,

all of it lacquered in sweetness,

slick with honey,

drenched in caramel,

dripping like maple syrup

down the spine of October.

When he speaks,

I don’t just hear.

I taste.

Cinnamon heat brushing the back of my tongue,

a slow-blooming spice that lingers.

Vanilla chai softening the edges,

cream and clove and cardamom

folding themselves into his voice

until I could swear

the sound itself is warm enough to sip.

Even with my eyes closed,

I would find him,

and at last...

let my breath fall steady,

knowing I am home.